Cause You'll Find Heaven Right Here
by exorcisingemily
Summary: The Apocalypse is over, the Winchesters have won, but there is still closure to find for the heroes. An epilogue for the Before the Fall 'Verse.


_Will it be hell or heaven on earth  
The choice is up to you  
Look to the sky, the answer is clear  
Are you gonna, live life for all it's worth  
Choose hell, or heaven on earth  
If you live it right, there's nothing to fear  
'Cause you'll find heaven right here_

Somewhere in a maze of rusting metal, an angel is sulking.

The problem with living with your brother is you know entirely too much about his love life on any given day. Usually, Sam doesn't mind overmuch. Yeah, Dean and Cas are often disgustingly domestic to be around when they're home, but for all the times Sam has had to witness them entwined on the couch so tightly so it would take a crowbar to separate them while they all watch movies, there's the other stuff.

Like Dean stocking up on salad and dressings and tuna and kale when the elder Winchester doesn't touch the stuff, sometimes making an entirely different meal and dropping it in front of Sam without a word about it because he and Cas want burgers for the umpteenth night in a row and he knows Sam won't want it. Or Cas turning to him with bright, shining eyes and declaring that he _likes_ the books Sam's suggested, asking Sam if they can go to the library again soon, and tetching at Dean when he rolls his eyes and disparagingly calls them both geeks. Or how all three of them work together seamlessly in the field, and how they leap to Sam's defense when people look at him askance, recognizing him.

The recognition is where things begin to fray.

Cas faces a wary sort of awe for being an _angel_ and a mass murderer that he handles smoothly in the field because he rarely interacts on a personal level, but he's quiet and withdrawn for hours afterwards, staring out of the window of the Impala; and they all know he's cataloguing his myriad sins that people see every time they look at him.

Sam. . . well, "The Devil Made Me Do It" just didn't seem to be winning over too many people. Once they got past the first ten or fifteen minutes of conversation, he's usually pretty good at changing people's opinions: Sam's never had problems being _likable. _He's trying to keep a pretty solid divide between what _Lucifer _did while wearing him and himself. It works, usually. Most of the time.

It's Dean that it's most drastic for, though. Dean is treated like some cross between a dangerous criminal, a sainted figure, or a comic book antihero come to life depending on which news source you followed; and he hasn't been handling everything as well as any of them had hoped. The smooth con-man has to deal with people who think they _know_ him because he went on TV once. Who idolize him because he threatened Lucifer on international television, the only human standing up for his species in the final battle of a war of gods and angels and devils. Dean's television stunt had _saved_ _lives _that night and every night since, but it had thrown a wrench in his own life.

Added to the fact that he hasn't been sleeping through the nights much since then, and even Sam has heard him wake from nightmares from across the little cabin they share, Dean is irritable. Actually, the work "jerk" comes to mind. Regularly. And for as often as he has _helped_ with that, Cas has made things worse, too. Because if Dean Winchester has a number one fan, it's Castiel. And Cas loves the man, but he completely agrees with the concept of "Dean the Hero" and "Dean the Saint" and sees no reason Dean shouldn't agree too.

Which is how we come to an angel sulking in a scrap yard.

Sam knows that Dean and Cas argue. They always have. They probably always will. But Dean stormed out with a bullshit excuse about grocery shopping, grabbing his wallet and his keys and throwing gravel up behind the wheels of the Impala, and moments later the screen door in the back slammed shut, bouncing in its frame and covering the sound of stomping boots on their wooden porch, and Sam was left alone in a house that seemed even more silent considering there'd been gruff-voiced arguing for him to try not to listen to for the last hour in it.

If Sam believed in Karma, he'd have to wonder if this was how the world was balancing out years of Dean having to deal with arguments between John and Sam. Truth is, though, he knows he doesn't _have_ to intervene. They'll work it out. If he leaves well enough alone, in a half an hour or so Dean will show up loaded with plastic grocery bags and hand Cas a mocha or a candy bar or something, and they'll both apologize nonverbally doing the freaky staring thing. They'll be back to normal faster than you can say "make-up sex."

So he could probably just turn up the TV and watch Discovery Channel until Cas comes drifting back inside and settles on the opposite side of the couch from him, silent until he finds something to disagree with historians or scientists about. He'd probably do just that if the gunshot hadn't made him lurch off of the couch, reflexively drawing his own weapon. It's not until the next shot, and the next, with a metronome steadiness, that he understands.

Winchester coping methods.

It's not hard to find Castiel. Arm level, blue eyes squinted against the glare of the setting sun, his hand is steady as he meticulously perforates the target etched in chalk on the side of an old clunker, rusting through in places but decent for stress relief. Sam doesn't interrupt him. Tucking away his gun into the small of his back behind his belt, Sam perches himself on the hood of an old Dodge, bracing both feet on the bumper and his elbows on his knees, as he watches Castiel analytically. Set shoulders, expression stoically blank, his motions almost mechanical. . .

Dean gets more animated when he's pissed, bared-tooth smiles and smartass goading remarks. Sam glares, or what his brother would call bitchface, completely upfront with his annoyance. Cas. . . he shuts down. Even when the last gunshot finishes echoing in their ears, he pops his clip in silence and begins methodically reloading, never once turning to Sam.

"So. . . I'm guessing you're upset about something." Sam finally offers into the silence between them dryly, because honestly otherwise it'd get ridiculous with him staring at Cas's back waiting.

"I don't want to talk, Sam." Cas might not be an angel any more, but he still didn't come off as entirely human at the best of times. Like this, he's alien and abrupt and alarming, and if Sam hadn't known him so long he'd probably be intimidated.

"Yeah, I'm. . . uh. . . I'm getting that." The breeze ruffles through Sam's bangs, at a length now that was more in his face than out of it as he grows his hair back out, and he shields his eyes with his hand as he squints at Cas's target, seeming to shimmer in the dying light, and Sam knows that Cas chose the placement for the difficulty of it, to force himself to concentrate. "You're getting to be a better shot. I mean, you've been good, but you're getting better."

"Thank you." Castiel responds to the compliment evenly, and turns slightly to look at Sam out of the corner of his eye as he holsters his gun. Even now, at home and with no case lined up and everyone there to watch over each other (barring 'shopping trips'), as soon as it's time to dress Cas goes through all of the same routines to get ready; apart from the holster, he was probably wearing the angel sword on his forearm and matches and lighter fluid in his jacket and a knife strapped to his ankle, and who knew what else in his various pockets. It had to make the couple's perpetual snuggling on the couch less comfortable, but Cas is weird and Dean doesn't discourage him from it, so who is Sam to judge? Guy was used to being able to smite anything that looked crossways at them, and was probably feeling a little vulnerable even after this long as a human. Or, more likely, he's concerned that he needs to be ready to protect Dean and Sam at any given time. "I _still_ do not want to talk, though."

Okay, then. So Sam would start the talking. "I know it's pissing you off, Cas, but. . . You gotta let him come to terms with this on his own, man. I know you mean well, but trying to make him. . ."

"You're wrong." Castiel interrupts bluntly, turning to face Sam now entirely, resigned to the fact that his friend, his brother, was not going to let this drop until he received an answer. "It is not 'pissing me off,' it is _frustrating_ me." Cas drops his hands from their finger-quote position, loose at his sides again, and Sam waits for explanation. The silence drags on again, but this time Castiel breaks first, closing his eyes to Sam's earnest expression and letting his breath out in a low sigh.

Sam tries not to congratulate himself on another successful application of puppy dog eyes _too _obviously as Cas reluctantly joins him on the hood, drawing both legs up with him and folding them, tilting his head back to look up at a sky streaked with orange and violet rather than risk looking at Sam again and being further prompted. "I am not _angry_ with your brother. I am. . . concerned."

"Because of the press thing?" No visible response. Reading Cas is often a game of 'hot or cold.' "Because of the nightmares?"

Warmer. Cas drops his chin and levels an unyielding look on Sam, who raises his hands slightly in surrender as he considers a new approach. There are boundaries, and at times it's like negotiating a mine field just to talk to any of them. Castiel will _not_ discuss anything about Dean that Dean hasn't first brought up, so staunchly protective of Dean's secrets that it's actually almost worse than trying to drag things out of his brother. Cas feels it'd be a betrayal of Dean's confidences, and Sam doesn't want to push him down that road again mentally. "Cas, I _live_ with you guys. I've lived with Dean pretty much my entire life. I know the signs, okay, and I just. . . you can't both just shut me out. I know it's waking him up a few times a week and last night was bad. You gotta. . . you gotta give me _something_, Cas. It's _Dean_."

The plea isn't faked, the worry is genuine, and Cas can read it in the face and posture of the overgrown man before him, this younger brother he never expected to acquire. Dean is their common thread, the link between them, but he cares for Sam as well-and he knows they both love Dean.

Sometimes Sam wishes Cas would just _fidget_ like a normal human being when he's considering something. Because it'd be a little embarrassing to sit here staring at each other if he didn't think this was going to become a conversation again once the fallen angel stopped chewing on whatever thought is in his head.

Cas can't tell Sam what he knows from talking to Dean, from quieting his fears. But he can share his _own _thoughtswith Sam, if he is careful. Sam is his friend and brother. He _should_ do this, for Sam's sake. Wetting his lips, Cas breathes in slowly again, decision made, and nods once before beginning, letting himself fall into the cadences and tones of storytelling.

"I have lived a very long time, Sam. I have watched empires rise and fall. I saw man invent the wheel, and saw him split the atom. I've walked behind saints and popes, watched artists and poets, scientists and philosophers, witnessed for myself most of human history. . . and when I tell you that your brother is the best of humanity, I want you and he both to understand that this is not an unstudied opinion. None of them was as capable of self-sacrifice, of humility, and of love. He is a better man than any of them. Than both of _us_, by far." It's not meant to be an insult, but Sam's still slightly stung by it. Cas doesn't catch that, but he does seem to read something else in Sam's shift in posture. "I love your brother. I assume that makes you believe I overlook his faults. But I knew this about him before I was capable of being biased in this. His _soul_, Sam. . ." Cas has a hand unconsciously pressed to his sternum, contemplating the warmth of that soul, and he lets his arms relax and fall back to his sides as soon as he realizes it. "There are not words to describe it."

Clearing his throat, Sam looks up at the darkening sky, picking out constellations as the stars begin to shine in a lavender sky. "If you're talking like this to him, I could see him getting uncomfortable, Cas. Dean doesn't see himself like that. . ."

"Because your brother has destroyed his own sense of self-worth." Castiel growls under his breath, but shakes his head dismissively after a moment. "No. This is not the basis of our argument." Not _this time, _at least_. _It had been the source of more than one fight during the span of their friendship and marriage, however. "But it's necessary that you understand that yourself, Sam. You do not always see your brother that way, either. You always recognize that he is a good man, but you are _too_ close to him. You have 'lived with him your entire life,' and it is hard to see something truly remarkable when it is commonplace to you."

Okay, Sam can accept that to an extent. Maybe. He hasn't exactly overlooked how awesome his brother is, but there are times when the reminder can be a punch to the gut, when he clearly gets a glimpse of what Dean is willing to do for others. He shrugs, without arguing, and Castiel takes it as a sign to carry on.

"You know the worth of a soul, more than any of us. You know what it is to live without . . . "

Sam's sudden bitchface pretty clearly conveys what he thinks of Cas bringing that up. Just what he wanted, regular callbacks to his time soulless. "Yeah. Thanks for the reminder."

". . . So you know its function, how it feels, what it makes of you." Taking a breath, Cas turns his hands over on his knees, looking down at his palms, lines and creases like tributaries of a river, and he knows he is putting off what he has to say next, and avoiding Sam's astute gaze. "Your brother tore his soul in half, Sam. For _me_. Because of _me_."

Castiel has damaged the single most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The one thing in life he could take pride in having helped nourish, that he had not managed to destroy as he did everything around him. Sam's shoulder bumps against his, rocking Cas in his place, and blue eyes flick up to meet hazel. "I'm not. . ." This wasn't about Castiel's problems, and he most certainly does not want to discuss _this_ with Sam. Taking a steadying breath, he continues before Sam can pry into Castiel's own issues, his words pouring out in a rush. ". . .tell me, since then has he seemed any different to you, Sam?"

Sam frowns at Cas, part at the obvious redirection of his thoughts, and part as he considers the question. "No? Not really. I mean, he's more tired than usual; he's bitchy, but no worse than any other time when he's not getting any sleep, I guess, and not all the time. _Is_ he different? I mean, is he. . .?"

Sam also knows how it is to live with a flayed, damaged soul. He can't voice the fear, now that Castiel has raised it, that his brother might slide, that he might be far more broken than he is showing. . . Cas allays his fears with a quick shake of his head. "No. That's the point. Dean has ripped half of his soul away, given it to me, and it is enough to sustain us _both_. He is not psychotic. He is not callous, or uncaring. He has empathy and emotion, and he is still self-sacrificing and _good_. With _half_ of that soul." It's a miracle. A sign of Dean's inherent _goodness, _of just how remarkable that soul had truly been and still is_._ A sign of his Father's light in the world, hope enough to sustain Cas now, even if he never sees his Father's face. Faith and belief are nearly as much of a balm to his guilt as Dean's steadfast support has been, ever since he found it again. It's not the same as when he was an angel, but he doesn't want that back. Castiel loves a man more than he has ever loved God or Heaven, and he does not ever intend for that to change. He just recognizes God's role in creating that man now.

"So then. . . what's the problem?" Sam is a worrier. He can't help it. He could probably rein in the need to pry everything he can out of Cas, now that he has the angel talking, but it's a rare enough occurrence that he has to take advantage of it. "If it's enough, if he's okay. . . what's wrong?"

This is where Castiel cannot reveal too much. He's said too much already. Castiel has betrayed them all enough, and even telling Dean's dreams is a violation of his privacy. While Sam may know soullessness more than any of them, Castiel's mind has been ripped into, his thoughts laid bare, all of his memories played out in someone else's mind and weaponized against them. Pressing his lips in a thin line Cas looks away, and Sam scowls at him as he tries working the rest out for himself.

His brother is hurting, soul-wise. Cas was treading close enough to what was going on that he didn't feel comfortable saying more. They're fighting. Dean's having nightmares. When Sam was soul-damaged, he was delusional. Seeing Lucifer, seeing the cage. Dean, though. . . last time _his_ soul was ripped up. . .

"He's dreaming about Hell again." Sam doesn't need Cas's confirmation. He can tell by the angel's avoidance that he's right. Sam saw Dean hiding it the first time, and even then it wasn'tlike _this_. "How bad?"

Cas's eyes flick to Sam's face. His gaze holds this time, and Sam gets it. Really gets it. Cas isn't worried. Cas is _afraid_. ". . . Crap. Okay. So we're talking _bad."_

Cas didn't tell Sam this. He didn't betray anything. It still feels like hollow justifications, still feels like fooling himself into believing he's in the right. He's _tired_, though. Exhausted, just as Dean is. Every night, he drags Dean Winchester out of a hell of his subconscious mind's making, and it is taking a toll on both of them. There is _no_ reason why Dean should be subjecting himself to Hell. His soul will heal, if he allows it, and yet he closes his eyes and he is back in the pit again. And he won't talk about it. Won't accept help. Is angry at Cas for worrying about it, for letting guilt eat at him for something as insignificant (to Dean's mind) as a few nightmares.

But Castiel never wanted Dean to go to hell for him. Not even in his mind.

"So what do we do about it?" _This_ is why Castiel loves Sam. The younger Winchester's immediate need to fix things, and the fact that he has unquestionably put himself in Castiel's corner to save Dean, just on the assumption that they cannot stand idly by while Dean is suffering. It is a relief just to know he isn't alone in this concern.

"I don't know. If I knew how to. . ." The rumble of the Impala interrupts Castiel's quiet words, and his gaze is drawn towards the cut of headlights that disappear into the salvage yard as Dean turns in towards the house. Every time they fight, there is a sweeping _relief_ when Dean makes it home, when they come back together, and a tension that Castiel didn't realize he was carrying seems to unknot within him as he lets his breath out softly, unfolding himself from the hood of the car and leading the way back towards Dean. That he ended mid-sentence doesn't faze him, or deter him. Sam frowns at Cas's back, and slides off of the hood to follow him eventually.

Unhealthy co-dependence may be the watchword around here, but it isn't helping them this time. Sam's been pretty understanding, he thinks, of the fact that Cas and Dean apparently "complete" each other, and have ever since Storm Lake dumped more of Cas's Grace into Dean, and since Dean ripped his soul in half to save Cas in Lawrence. Hell, ever since he realized his brother was in love with the angel, he's done his best to cram the two of them together because they're usually _good_ for each other even discounting the soul/grace thing. But they're so damned in love that they don't push sometimes when they _should_. Yes, they fight, but they're not resolving anything this way because they're too eager to_ stop _fighting. Case in point, by the time he rounds a stack of cars, Dean's put the plastic grocery bags down on the trunk of the Impala and folded Cas against him, arms wound around the angel as he rubs soothing circles into the Cas's back, murmuring apologies and comfort into Cas's hair.

Dean's telling him that they'll be alright. That the nightmares are nothing. That Cas doesn't need to worry. Planting his feet, fists clenched, Sam stops a few paces in front of them and glares at his brother until Dean seems to feel the weight of his brother's regard and lifts his head.

"Sammy. . . ?" Dean's eyes narrow, muscles tensing, and he's responding to the fight he can _see_ coming just in the stance Sam has taken, planting himself between them and the front door of their cabin.

"Don't 'Sammy' me, Dean. Were you planning to tell me you were dropping headfirst back into Hell, or does the whole openness and honesty thing only apply when _I'm_ supposed to be the one not keeping secrets?" He's thrown the gauntlet, and it's obvious in how all three of them now are suddenly squaring down in the middle of their yard. Dean's arms drop from around Cas, muscle in his jaw jumping as he grinds his teeth. Cas steps back and shoots a fleeting warning look at Sam before straightening, tense and stubborn again himself.

"How . . .?"

Dean turns his head and looks at Cas, who drops his gaze to his feet for a moment, before letting his breath out and looking up at Dean, exuding guilt with his defiance. And _that_ pisses Sam off even more. "He made me figure it out myself, Dean, don't take it out on him. You're both pigheaded idiots about sharing _anything_. We're dealing with this. . ."

"Yeah, and how do you plan to do that, Sam?" Gaze snapping to his brother again, Dean's words are sharp, and he blocks off his brother's attempt to help with sarcasm and a closed posture. "We gonna talk this out? Cup of chamomile and a bowl of ice cream and it'll all go away? I got hurt. It sucks. I'll deal. No amount of bitching about this is going to do anything but drag it out and make Cas feel. . ."

"Do not use me as an excuse, Dean."

". . . _guilty_, which you fucking keep feeling, and I didn't do this so you could have something else to blame yourself for. . ."

"Hey!" Sam's yell is loud enough that Cas grimaces, and both of them look at Sam. Arms folded, looming over both of them, the younger Winchester scowls and shakes his head. "I've _heard_ this argument before, and clearly it didn't do anything the _first_ time. And if I'm going to have to play _marriage counselor_ then you're both going to shut up and _listen_."

"No, Sam, _you_ listen." Dean's voice seems to hit the gravel driveway, deep and harsh, dragging as if it could flay the skin from all of them. "No family hug or marriage counseling or group therapy crap is going to get rid of this. I am _handling_ it. This isn't something we've ever been able to talk out, and it ain't going to do crap for me now either. All it's gonna do is end up fucking with all three of us. I told you before it was always gonna be up here. . ." Dean taps a fingertip to his temple, scowling at his brother. ". . . and it's just stirred up right now. But there is nothing, _nothing,_ in here I wouldn't be willing to go through all over again to get us here and safe like we are. I earned every damned one of my nightmares, and I can deal with them. And it is not worth you two getting all up at frikkin' arms over something going on in _my_ head, and _just_ in my head. We _won._ This is our fucking happily ever after, all of us. So back the fuck off and _be fucking happy_."

Dean turns abruptly, lacing his hands through the bags resting on the closed trunk, and storms past his brother, boots loud on the porch, and the screen door slams in its frame behind him. Castiel turns to watch him as he stomps past; brow knitted, pain in his eyes, he doesn't move and doesn't speak, watching the door once Dean disappears through it.

Cas can't let this drop. He can't walk away from it and ignore Dean going through this, even if he wanted to. He's taken to slipping out of bed once Dean is asleep and pulling a chair over, watching Dean for the first sign of the nightmares. It's easier than waking abruptly to Dean fighting him, to having to struggle with the man who is his best friend, lover and husband, just to keep them both safe until the visions broke, and Dean is left panting and bruised and sweat-soaked on the bed. He can no longer yank Dean's dreams to safer grounds, to comfortable dimly lit bars or sun-soaked piers, so he does what he can to anchor Dean to reality, to touch and comfort him, and to catch these dreams before Dean is pulled under completely. And he prays.

Sam has been speaking to him, he can tell by the annoyed look on the younger man's face as he steps in front of Cas, head tilted down to catch his eyes and drag him away from staring at the door. "Were you even listening to me?"

"No." Why do they always ask for honesty when it makes them so angry to hear it? "Your brother never '_earned' _hell." He sounds defensive, he knows it, and something smoothes out in Sam's face and features, as they find something to agree about again. The only thing Dean Winchester has ever done to "earn" hell, he did _in_ hell after decades of resistance. He carries it with him like. . .

Cas isn't listening again. Sam is opening his mouth to say something when Cas shakes his head slightly, holding up a hand to stop him before he can interrupt the faintest inklings of an idea before it takes root. Castiel is used to _strategy_, to tactics and battle plans, concepts that are refined by being hammered and honed like weapons. In comparison, this is gossamer and silk, fragile and hard to keep hold of. He has never had as strong a grasp of emotion, though he is as ruled by it now as the Winchesters, whether he wants to admit it or not.

Delicacy is not something he is particularly adept at using.

Sam is shifting impatiently from foot to foot at his side, and he has to put this into words before he is finished with it, if he intends to enlist help.

"I need you to research something for me."

He has a _plan_ now. It's not much of one, but it is all he has, and he would rather have an aim, a mission, than flounder with conversation when Dean can talk circles around him on the best of days. He can barely hear cabinets opening and closing in their kitchen, watching Dean through the windows, the dark shape of him as he moves about in their small home, the tense set of his shoulders. Castiel cannot imagine a time when Dean in pain is something that he could feasibly ignore, no matter how much Dean thinks he should. Even as an angel he would not have been able to heal this for this stubborn, proud man that he has fallen in love with, but he has to do _something_.

His explanation comes slowly, with pauses as he finds the right words, and he keeps his eyes on Dean rather than risk looking at Sam, knowing he will only watch the younger Winchester's expression soften into fondness at his hesitation, and he has his own pride he is attempting to ignore.

"Okay. I'm in. What're _you_ going to do?"

Sam asks, finally, and Cas tears his eyes away from Dean's silhouette and fixes on Sam, blinking, and he speaks very slowly and very clearly for his friend's benefit. "You don't actually want me to answer that question."

He _knows_ this one. Sam has made it perfectly clear that as ecstatic as he is that his brother is married, he doesn't want 'details.' He would prefer everything around him remain 'PG-13' in general. True to form, Sam pulls a face when Cas's words sink in, his nose scrunching, forehead wrinkling, and he shakes his head. ". . . Yeah. Yeah, you're right, I don't. Nevermind."

Castiel congratulates himself on managing to subtly get his point across, for once.

Shaking his head again as if he can dislodge whatever images Cas's (very obvious, not in the least bit subtle) meaning put into his mind, Sam scrubs a hand through his hair and claps Cas on the shoulder, part companionable, part as if to wish Cas luck, and then shoves his hands in his pockets and takes the steps up the porch at once, sliding into the house without engaging his brother.

Castiel gives Sam time to close himself into his room and turn on his music before following him into the house. Unlike Sam, Castiel strides directly into their small kitchen, ignoring Dean's forbidding posture as he closes the distance between them. Folding his hand over the scar he knows is on Dean's shoulder to turn him, he laces the fingers of his other hand into Dean's hair, abruptly pressing Dean back against the closed door of the refrigerator to seal their lips together. It does not take long for Dean to respond, his eyes sliding closed as Cas watches him, surging into the kiss and assuming control of it.

Castiel believes in a direct approach, and dislikes going to bed angry. Dean believes in physical distraction from uncomfortable topics. In this, now, they are very well matched. When Dean pushes Cas back, he does it without breaking away from the kiss, inching him backwards towards their bedroom as he shoves the jacket down Cas's shoulders, letting the fabric bunch awkwardly until Cas is willing to distance himself enough to shake it off his wrists, letting it fall to the floor with a heavy thump of overly stuffed pockets. Dean kicks it aside rather than trip over it or the shirt Castiel yanks off over Dean's head unceremoniously, before he pulls Dean back into him by the belt loops of his faded jeans.

"We are not finished discussing this." Cas warns, because he feels he ought to, and because Dean is intelligent enough to recognize a diversionary tactic when one is enthusiastically stripping him, trailing his hands over every new inch of skin revealed. Dean snorts quietly, dragging his lips over the bolt of Cas's jaw, teeth scraping his skin lightly, warningly.

"We're shutting up now, Cas."

"Dean, you can't . . ."

Dean's eyes are captivating when he raises his head, and Castiel finds himself losing his intended retort when the hunter leers at him, a left-hand smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth and leaves Cas flush-cheeked and gaping. He can _feel_ his heart rate ratchet, see color flood into the world as his pupils dilate, hungry for detail and caught on the spit-shined and kiss-bruised curve of Dean's lip, and heat flushes through his body as endorphins flood his brain, triggering vasodilators that leave him entirely too aware of Dean's hands on his waist and breath warm and humid against the curve of his cheek. These are very _human_ reactions, and once Castiel would have been taken aback by them, overwhelmed by them. Under Dean's constant tutelage, he's learned to very much appreciate this aspect of the human experience, though.

"Bet I can make you forget what we were talking about."

Castiel doesn't take the bet. Dean is very, very accomplished at distracting him. With a low chuckle that rumbles his chest at Cas's expression, Dean catches Cas's lips again slowly, smug and teasing, completely aware of the effect he has on the fallen angel.

They leave a trail of clothing to the bedroom that Sam rolls his eyes in disgust at, once he's convinced that emerging from his bedroom won't mentally scar him for life. Between the kitchen and living room, he stoops to dig the keys to the Impala out of his brother's pocket. Pickpocketing is easier with an accomplice to ensure that pocket ends up abandoned and accessible, but he _really _doesn't want this to become a habit. He resists the urge to gather up their clothes and dump them in the laundry, and escapes quickly instead. He has had enough experience with thin motel room walls between him and his brother and brother-in-law after hunts and arguments, he doesn't need to stick around for a repeat. Somehow, for two stubborn jerks who have trouble communicating, they have absolutely _no_ problem being _vocal_.

Palming the keys, Sam slips out of the house quietly, though he's pretty sure he could tromp through with a herd of elephants or a full marching band and not distract them now. He has supplies to gather.

The cabin is silent and dark by the time he finishes, and Sam sets his bag down inside as he locks up behind himself again, leaving his bedroom door open to hear if he's needed.

It begins again the way it always does, in fire and blood.

Dean wakes with the muscles in his arms burning, his throat sore and lungs aching as he drags in air as best he can. The restricting weight pressing on his chest and body only makes sense once he realizes that Castiel has him pinned bodily to the bed. Dean's wrists are held in a vice-like grip, Cas's knees digging into Dean's sides, and even Dean can't find anything remotely arousing about having the angel pressed flush against him this time. A few moments later Castiel raises his head, clearly having ducked it in to keep Dean from headbutting or hitting him, and in the dark of their bedroom Dean can barely make out the wet shine of the angel's open eyes fixed on Dean's face, cautious and waiting.

"I'm back." He manages to croak, and he allows for the slow bleed of tension easing out of Castiel's wiry frame. Cas releases his wrists slowly, as if he has to pry each finger off individually, the joints locked up and his arms corded from effort. Dean is _stronger_ than him, a fact that still seems wrong, and wrestling Dean down like that without hurting him, keeping them both safe, is an effort.

This is how it all started for them, so many months ago, on a musty mattress in an abandoned and storm-damaged home; Dean soothing and containing Castiel, coaxing him out of the terror of his Fall, the spiraling horror and pain of his wings burning away around him and the earth below him rising to swallow him as he crashed from Heaven to the earth. Moreover, this is how it began for them years ago, in a way, when Castiel dragged Dean out of the dark and pain and terror and destruction of the Pit.

Head flopping back into the pillow, Dean stares at the slow swoop of the ceiling fan in the dark above them, just a sense of moving darkness, and waits until both of them have caught their breath and his muscles have stopped quaking beneath the slow glide of Castiel's palms, dragging over his chest and up the line of his arms, gently pressing the ache from his body as he shifts back on his heels to sit astride Dean's knees.

"I'm good." Dean catches Cas's hands, finally, trying to draw him back down onto the bed beside him, but the angel doesn't budge and doesn't resume his customary position curled into Dean's side and pillowed on his chest to listen to his heartbeat. Cas's response rasps, low and dark and commanding.

"No, Dean, you're not. Please sit up."

Shifting to free Dean's legs, Cas turns his hand in Dean's grip, lacing their fingers together and tugging the hunter upright on the bed beside him. Stretching to turn the light on, Cas blinks owlishly for a moment before situating himself again and pressing a glass of juice into Dean's hand.

The condensation rolling down the side, and the thin exercise pants riding low on Castiel's hips, now alert Dean to the fact that Castiel had been awake before his nightmares began; and he's enough of a hunter to know that this combined with Cas and Sam getting chummy earlier in the evening spells out trouble for him. He's tensing before his brain has really kickstarted into consciousness, squinting at Cas's somber face suspiciously. "Seriously? What, planning to give me a juice box next?" Dean mutters, but Castiel doesn't laugh as he settles himself in against Dean, one arm coiled around his waist and drawing the hunter to recline back against his side as if he still has to anchor Dean to reality, shoulders to the headboard. In truth, Cas just doesn't want to let Dean go. It's as much for his comfort as it is for Dean's.

"Drink it. I've been researching, and the sugar and antioxidants are important when recovering from an episode of emotional trauma and. . ."

Great. Cas's been _researching_. Sighing, Dean tips the drink back, ignoring the acidic sting on his sore throat, and he hands Cas back the emptied glass with a cocked eyebrow. "I'm guessing we're not going back to sleep. Are we doing this again, Cas? 'Cause I'm pretty sure I can say both our parts in this conversation now, and. . ."

"You're right. About me, and my. . . _guilt_."

Okay, so no. Dean wasn't expecting that one. His jaw shuts with a snap, and he twists in place to look at Cas, who watches him with the unnerving stare that no amount of time as a human has managed to soften. "I . . . 'earned' it, but I have allowed it to affect you, and Sam, and our lives at home and as we hunt."

Dean wants to say something sarcastic, to congratulate Cas on finally catching up to the frikkin' obvious, but Cas doesn't pause long enough to let him, and Dean can recognize a practiced speech when he hears one. "I have to live with it, but I do not need to _cling_ to it. I have an idea for how to start to deal with that, and with this too. . ." Cas doesn't need to indicate Dean, or lay out what he's talking about: it all comes back to Dean, to the nightmares, to the fact that they are sitting in their bed as the sweat cools on Dean's skin and the light chases away the visions of Hell. ". . . But I need your help, Dean."

Cas could have punched Dean and been less surprising, overall, between the admission and a request for help. He waits, watching Dean process that for a moment, before sliding out of bed and grabbing clothes for them both. When Cas turns, tugging a t-shirt on to cover himself, Dean reaches out to stop him midway, dropping his feet to the floor and rising to his feet abruptly. "Son of a. . ."

There is a spreading stain of red across Cas's back on the right side, rippling with the skin over his ribs as he moves, that wasn't there when they finally drifted off to sleep. He _hurt_ Cas before he was restrained, fighting his way back out of Hell, back to consciousness, and Cas wouldn't have even _mentioned_ it. It's not bad. Dean knows, intellectually, that they've done far worse damage to each other in the past. He knows that Cas gets banged up worse than this nearly every hunt they go on. But this is a sign, a visible token of the fact that Dean is not in control of his own body's reactions, and _he hurt Cas_. He hisses another expletive under his breath before turning Cas in his arms, folding one arm around the angel's shoulders and splaying his hand across the bruise as if he can heal it, or wipe it away.

Cas accepts the embrace, burying his face into the curve of Dean's neck and placing a kiss on his pulse. He straightens his shirt and offers Dean clothes silently as he steps back, eyes imploring; Dean doesn't argue with him about what they're doing or why. He'll give whatever Cas has planned a shot. Because anything is better than thinking he could hurt Cas worse next time, wake up with the knife under his pillow in his grasp.

Still, seeing Sam sitting cross-legged in front of a small, white-hot fire in the middle of their 'yard' gives him pause when Cas leads him out there by the hand. He lets himself be tugged to sit down beside them, flanking the blaze, close enough to Cas that their knees brush when he folds his legs. "If we're singing campfire songs. . ."

"Sam already did the chanting." Cas corrects, either deliberately waylaying Dean's defensive sarcasm, or missing it. Dean's pretty sure it's deliberate. The fire should be _hot_ this close to the flames, but Dean holds his hand out towards it and frowns at the lack of radiating warmth, before Cas carefully wraps his hand around Dean's wrist and tugs it back safely. "It's not a true fire, not entirely. It took Holy Oil and the bone of a saint and ingredients from Bobby's stores . . ."

"'And' it was a pain in the ass to make and isn't going to last forever." Sam interrupts the recipe, tilting slightly to look at Dean, and in the light of this fire Dean can pick out every line on his brother's face, the stray hairs that cling to his cheeks, the weave of fabric on his jeans. "Plus it'll burn the shit out of you if it touches you. So save the hand-warming and s'mores for later."

Sam drops a bag into Cas's lap, rocking back to brace himself on his palms, and he watches his brother over the fire analytically in response to Dean's own suspicious stare. Cas ignores them both as he unzips the bag, and his next motion calls both of their attention back to him.

The angelic sword in his hands is familiar, nearly identical in weight and appearance to the sword he now carries with him everywhere, and for months this one was his primary weapon. Taking a deep breath, he looks up at Dean and can see the question in his eyes; he doesn't understand.

Of course he doesn't. Cas never wanted him to. Not completely.

"This is Hester's." Not _was_. Is. "The swords. . . they are a piece of us, our Grace manifested physically and an extension of our will, and I. . . any angel. . . we can _feel_ that on touch. Just as Uriel and I could tell the Grace we held was Anna's. We can hold it, even use it, but we cannot make it part of us, any more than Hester could use the souls while they were bound in _my _Grace. I can wield this sword, but . . ." He's struggling to explain, even though he was certain he'd worked it all out in his mind before beginning. Grimacing, Cas ducks his head down and reconsiders his explanation, closing his eyes to the flame.

"The last thing my sister did with this blade in her hand was murder _you_, Dean, to make you suffer for my choices. The last time she held it, she was wholly committed to her belief that I was insane and power-mad, destroying Heaven and a threat to everything she cared about. And the last time she touched it, I murdered _her_ with it, violently and angrily, and she died knowing she was right about me, that every terrible thing she thought about me was the truth. And I can. . . _feel_ that, every single time I come in hold it. That is why I put it away after Storm Lake, until San Antonio." And then he carried it, every day against his skin, for nearly a year. To remind himself of what he was, and what he became, and what it cost Dean. He was tortured with it, to open the cage in which Asmodeus and Ba'el had been trapped, and to restart the Apocalypse; and it reaffirmed every accusation as Meg used it to carve his skin. He carried it every day until Dean and Gabriel had placed Balthazar's sword in his hands.

Then he folded it away into their possessions in the trunk, loathe to part with it in case he needed the reminder of his failures. It was never about needing a backup: the angels are _gone_, and they have the Colt and Ruby's knife as well, so none of them are unprotected. It was about hanging on to that shame.

He doesn't need to explain this all to Dean. He can tell that Dean understands now, can see it in the pain and empathy on his face when Cas opens his eyes to see his husband across the fire. With a bracing breath, Castiel drops the sword into the flames without drawing the matter out further, and Dean catches his hand immediately after, squeezing tightly, support and loaned strength and love in the touch and in their bond.

Cas watches the fire take the last of Hester, the silver of the blade blazing orange before melting to slag and taking with it the last piece of an angel. He waits until the after-image of the weapon fades from his retina before untangling his fingers from Dean's, turning their hands on his knee, and reaching into the bag again, holding his breath for Dean's reaction as he presses the next item into Dean's palm, wrapping his fingers around a familiar weight there.

Dean freezes, his muscles locking tight, eyes fixed on his hand. He knows it instantly.

Alastair's razor, folded in on itself, seems to radiate sinister intent. There is no rust on the blade or the handle, no blood stains, not a nick or a scratch to show the centuries of torture it had doled out within Hell or the decades Dean himself had suffered under it. . . the decade he had spent wielding it himself.

"You are _free _now, Dean_._" Castiel murmurs for Dean alone, shifting closer to his side, touch light on the hunter's arm. He wishes they were alone for this. No matter how much he appreciates Sam's assistance he cannot hold Dean the way he wishes, because Dean wouldn't welcome anything that could make him appear weak now in front of Sam, his little brother, for whom he has to remain strong. Dean raises his gaze, the Winchesters locking eyes across the fire now.

"You gotta let it go, man." Sam pleads, hazel eyes wide and sympathetic, and Dean's jaw twitches as he snaps his teeth together on a response.

"Yeah, and what are_ you_ gonna burn, then, Sammy?" Dean retorts quickly, but there's a tremor in his arm as he raises it and drops the blade into the flames. Cas leans into him, shoulders pressed together, and he can feel the shuddering moment of relief as Dean finally lets it go, the gleaming edge of the razor that had broken him warping, softening, and melting away formlessly in the blessed fire.

"I'd have burned the white suit, but I'm pretty sure the hospital did that when you brought me in." Sam responds just as quickly, a slight curl to the corner of his lips, and the weight of the moment is broken, leaving a lightness that Dean hasn't felt in. . . a damned long time. "Plus,_ I'm_ the psychologically adjusted one of this group. Which is kinda funny, overall."

The Anti-Christ thinks he's the well balanced one.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that Sammy." Dean snorts, and he tucks his arm around Cas's waist, pressing a fleeting kiss to Cas's forehead as he pulls him back to his feet, letting the small moment speak for him for now. Ducking his head to accept the gesture, Castiel closes his eyes and smiles faintly. Maybe this catharsis could be enough for the both of them. He hopes it is. "You know you said s'mores and now I want them, right?"

"Dean, it's like. . . 3AM."

"Yeah, and. . .? You going soft on us, Sammy? Give you a bed and suddenly you're acting like 3AM is late for us. You got your four hours already, bitch."

"You're the idiot who thinks that's enough sleep. _I_ need more than four hours, jerk. And now you're telling me s'mores for breakfast is. . . "

"You know no matter how much 'beauty sleep' you get it's not going to . . ."

"What are 'smores'?"

Sam and Dean grind to a complete halt, turning simultaneously to look at the mildly confused angel trailing behind them, adeptly ignoring most of the brothers' banter in favor of soaking up what it _represents_, the attempt to reassert their own brand of normality. He enjoys watching the Winchester boys like this, the familial camaraderie that they have, that they have both walked through fire to try and get back to.

"_Dude_." Dean gestures at Cas indicatively, turning wide eyes on his brother. "He doesn't even know."

Castiel blinks slowly at them, and cants his head to the side questioningly.

". . . Crap." Rubbing a hand over his jaw, knowing he's been beaten now that Dean has a _reason_, Sam rocks back on his heels and rolls his eyes heavenwards. "We don't have graham crackers, do we? I guess Wal-Mart's open. . ." With a put-upon sigh, Sam drops his chin and rests one fist on his open palm, a challenge in the stare he levels on his brother. They don't even need to discuss it to know the game.

Sam throws rock, prepared to send his brother off to do the pre-dawn shopping for them.

Dean, for the first time throwing off decades of routine, throws _paper_. And smirks as he does.

Reaching over to pluck at Cas's shirt sleeve, the elder Winchester tugs the angel to his side and tosses an arm around his shoulders possessively, clucking his tongue in mock sympathy as he flashes his most smug grin at his brother. "Sorry, Sammy. Guess that means me _you're_ doing the shopping this time, and Cas and I are just gonna have to build a fire without you . . ."

"Yeah, changing up rock-paper-scissors to be alone with Cas, I _bet_ that's the whole plan. . ." Sam mutters, punching his brother in the shoulder and taking the keys from him, tromping towards the Impala. "Who knew you'd turn into such a friggin' sap. . ."

"You knew he would throw rock. Because you always throw scissors." Castiel is watching Dean, eyes brightening as a year-old mystery is solved for him finally, something that should have been completely obvious at the time. "You have used this game to let him think he was winning something you were willing to do before, or to hide that you wanted to 'lose' to spare him. . . or to gain for yourself."

Dean turns slightly to raise an eyebrow at Cas, and even in the dim light cast by their back porch and the dying fire behind them, Cas can see that Dean doesn't understand the significance Castiel is assigning this, the importance. Because Dean hadn't _accidentally_ ended up sharing sleeping space with him in Iowa, the night that had changed everything. A night that had become Castiel's Heaven, his 'last night on earth.' It was _deliberate_, all of it. Dean hadn't just fallen into a relationship with him, or been pressured into it by his obsession as Michael had once claimed to shake Castiel's faith. Dean had _chosen_ it from the very start by creating a competition, and rigging the outcome.

Castiel smiles to himself, shaking his head when Dean rumbles a question at him, and leans forward to kiss Dean softly, trying to express in action what he wouldn't in words, cupping Dean's cheeks in his hands gently and backing him up until they reach the porch together, sinking down to sit on their back steps together. He does not need explanations for games long past, or to delve into the night's activities and the significance of them: they both can _feel_ that. He is content just to _be_ with Dean, to stretch out along the porch steps and look up at the night sky, Dean pointing out constellations, and Castiel galaxies and nebulas and distant suns, until the boys ply him with sweets and bicker with each other until dawn.

They have all three earned _this_.

They are Winchesters. They have outwitted Hell, outlasted Heaven, saved the Earth, and created a life for themselves after the Apocalypse. It was a long road, and a painful one.

This is their "happily ever after." Castiel intends to savor it.


End file.
